by Sally Slater
To Sam’s surprise, the sentries lowered the drawbridge without any delay or questions. They must have recognized Tristan—which was odd, because there were few people the guards knew on sight besides the city folk who lived in Haywood year round. Tristan did say he had business with the duke, so perhaps they had been waiting for his arrival.
They rode their horses across the wooden deck and down the main boulevard into the heart of Haywood. The hustle and bustle of the city was at its peak this time of year as Haywood prepared for the annual grand fair, held during the last week of every summer. Shop windows were crowded with the latest wares, and it seemed new stalls had cropped up on every street corner. Caravans of traveling merchants were squeezed in between, carrying spices and silks and all manner of exotic goods.
Sam felt like a stranger in her own skin as they passed the sights and sounds and smells of her former home. Nothing much appeared to have changed since she’d left, but she could hardly expect Master Dwyer to slip her a tartlet when she passed his bakeshop, nor would Master Wayland, the blacksmith, usher her inside his forge for her to admire his latest creation. He’d made Sam her first sword when she was just a little girl, upon her mother’s request and her father’s reluctant approval.
It was an odd sort of homecoming. There were no friendly faces for Sam to greet, only people to hide from. She hunched over in her saddle, hood pulled low over her eyes, avoiding the gazes of anyone but her traveling companions.
Tristan led them straight to The Courtier, the finest inn in Haywood. Nestled between a row of red and blue houses, the inn was a five-storied affair with its own private stables. Its owner, Master Ibarra, doubled as one of the city’s most prominent moneylenders, and he used his extra profits to lavish the inn with every conceivable amenity. Only the very wealthy could afford The Courtier’s exorbitant rates.
After a footman stabled their horses, Master Ibarra came to greet them and escorted them inside. Sam pretended fascination with a spot on the floor, studiously observing her feet. She’d never before made the innkeeper’s acquaintance, but all of Haywood knew her face.
“Paladin Lyons,” he said, smoothing his oiled mustache. “It’s good to see you again.”
Tristan inclined his head. “And you, Master Ibarra. I trust business has been good.”
Master Ibarra sighed. “Never good enough, I’m afraid. But enough of business. Tonight I am at your disposal. Name anything you need, and I will see that it is yours.”
“Thank you, Master Ibarra,” Tristan said. “I must confess I’m surprised to see you. I thought you’d have a servant attend to us instead, what with all the preparations for the fair.”
“His Grace told me you were coming, so I wanted to see to you myself,” the innkeeper said with a flourish of his hand.
Sam’s ears perked up at the mention of ‘His Grace.’ The duke had informed Master Ibarra of Tristan’s arrival? He only gave advance notice for the most important of dignitaries.
“Ah, yes,” Tristan said, “I wrote to the duke before we left Heartwine to let him know I’d be passing through.”
Master Ibarra smoothed his mustache again before speaking. “About His Grace—” the innkeeper paused, a pained expression on his face. “Actually, it’s probably best if he tells you himself.” He reached into his belt pouch and removed a sealed letter that had been folded into quarters. “From the duke.” He handed the letter to Tristan.
Tristan broke the seal of the letter and quickly scanned its contents, his face growing perplexed. With great precision, he refolded the letter and tucked it into the top of his trousers. “We’ll be needing three rooms for the next few nights,” he said to Master Ibarra.
The innkeeper bowed. “Very well. If you’ll follow me.”
Master Ibarra guided them up four flights of stairs to the best rooms in the inn. It wasn’t till she’d reached the third flight that Sam realized she would have an entire room to herself. It was the most privacy she’d had in weeks. Despite the stress of being in the world’s most dangerous place to her identity, she felt positively giddy.
Once they were settled, Master Ibarra bowed and excused himself, informing them he’d be in the mead hall should they need him.
“Okay, lads,” Tristan said. “We need to talk.” He sagged onto a nearby settee and began removing his boots.
“Is everything all right, Tristan?” Sam asked, feeling much warmer towards him than she had earlier in the day.
“Everything is fine,” he replied, pulling off another boot. “I think it is, anyway.”
“What did the duke want?” Sam asked, forcing nonchalance into her voice.
“That’s what I wanted to talk to both of you about,” Tristan said, straightening. “We’ve received a summons. The duke wants us to dine with him tomorrow evening.”
“Us?” Sam and Braeden exclaimed in horrified unison.
“It’s a tremendous honor,” he continued, oblivious to his trainees’ dismayed reactions. “His Grace is one of the most powerful men in all of Thule. Tomorrow night, you must acquit yourself with the dignity befitting a Paladin trainee. My trainees. The duke is rather fond of me. Don’t embarrass me.”
Sam gaped at Tristan. The Duke of Haywood was fond of him? The duke wasn’t fond of his own daughter!
“Are you certain you want me to come?” Braeden asked with a hint of defiance. “I wouldn’t want to cause you embarrassment.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Tristan said. Sam liked him better for it. “You’re my trainee, same as Sam. The duke would expect no less. He’s eager to meet both of you.”
“Why?” Sam asked. The Duke of Haywood she knew had little interest outside of politics and no time for anyone who didn’t figure into his machinations. Why would he waste his breath conversing with a paladin’s trainees?
“I don’t know,” Tristan admitted. “His letter said he had news to share with me alone, but he insisted on meeting the two of you. Idle curiosity, I suppose.”
Sam shook her head. Her father never did anything without deep thought and careful calculation.
“Listen,” Tristan said, rising to his feet. “The duke is a very important man, so try not to do anything foolish. And remember, you two are a reflection on me.”
“I think we can manage,” Braeden said dryly.
Sam was not so certain. For all his faults, no one would call the duke stupid. Her short hair and men’s clothes would never fool him. If her father saw her, he’d know it was her in an instant. He wouldn’t even have to drag her back to Haywood; she was already there. She needed to get out of dinner, at whatever cost.
When they went their separate ways to bed, Sam was still without any ideas. She could run away again, but that would defeat the whole purpose. What she needed was an excuse—or a disguise so good her own father wouldn’t recognize her.
After an hour of tossing and turning, brilliance finally struck. Brilliance, or extreme stupidity, but she was too desperate to care which.
She knocked on the door between her room and Braeden’s. He unlocked the door a moment later.
“Thank the Gods you’re still awake.”
“What’s wrong?” Braeden asked, allowing Sam to slip past him into his chamber. “You’ve been acting strangely all day.” He closed the door behind her and took a seat on the edge of his bed.
“It’s complicated,” she said, wincing at the understatement. Complicated didn’t begin to cover it.
Braeden arched an eyebrow. “I can do complicated.”
“I’ll explain it all to you someday, I promise,” she said. She hoped she’d be able to keep that promise, and that he wouldn’t hate her when she told him. “But for now, I need a favor.”
Braeden nodded for her to go on.
She just had to come right out and say it. “I need you to punch me.”
Braeden nearly fell off the edge of the bed. “What?”
She tried again, more slowly, “I need you to punch me. In the face. Hard.”
Braeden abruptly stood up and closed the distance between them, cupping her face in both hands. A scant inch separated their noses—and mouths, but Sam willed that thought away—and up this close, Sam could see that Braeden’s eyes were beautiful, the irises shimmering shades of red with tiny flecks of gold. In spite of herself, she shivered.
“Sorry,” Braeden said, dropping his hands and backing away. A dark red warmed the ochre of his cheeks.
“What was that for?” she asked indignantly.
“I was searching for signs of illness. Clearly, you’ve gone mad.”
“It’s not madness, it’s—” she stopped. “I’ve got some money saved up. I’ll pay you to do it. How about three gold sovereigns?”
“I wouldn’t do it for five hundred.” He plopped back down on the bed, folding his arms over his chest. “Sam, why don’t you tell me what’s really going on?”
Sam had once been told that the best lies were distortions of the truth. So she’d try to come close to the truth. Still, she felt guilty about lying to Braeden.
“What I’m about to tell you, you can’t tell anyone,” she said, her voice just above a whisper. “Especially not Tristan. Do you swear on the Gods?”
Braeden looked nonplussed, but he agreed. “Aye, I swear.”
She drew in a steadying breath. “I lied about my lineage to the Paladins. Lord Hawkins is not my father. There is no Lord Hawkins.”
His brow knitted into a frown. “I don’t understand. Why lie? And what does that have to do with anything?”
She couldn’t meet his gaze. “The Duke of Haywood is my father.”
Braeden was silent for several beats. “Are you lying to me now?”
“No,” she said hoarsely. “I swear it on the Gods and on my mother’s grave.”
“Are you his heir?”
She crossed her fingers behind her back. I’m sorry, Mother. “No, Braeden. I’m his ill-gotten bastard.”
She could see the wheels in his mind turning as he processed her lie. “This is . . . unexpected. I don’t know the right thing to say.”
She offered him a tentative smile, burying her guilt. “Say nothing. Just help me. I can’t see my father tomorrow, not looking like this.”
“Would it be so bad?” he asked. “Seeing your father?”
“Yes, it would,” she retorted. “My father thinks I have no business fighting demons just because I’m a g—” She swallowed her words.
“Because you’re a what?” Braeden prompted.
Faith in blood, she’d almost betrayed herself. She needed to watch her tongue. “Because I’m a bastard. My father would never have allowed me to join the Paladins. If he finds out I’m here, he’ll force me to come home.”
“That’s tricky,” he acknowledged. “But how will a punch in the face solve anything?”
She pinched the skin on the inside of her arm hard, showing the new purple-blue spot to Braeden. “I bruise easily. If you blacken my eyes and bloody my lip, the duke won’t know it’s me.”
“Would you like me to break your nose as well?”
Sam thought it over. “I’d rather you didn’t. I’d prefer not to do any permanent damage to my face, if I can avoid it.”
Braeden gave her a long, searching look, and then buried his face in his hands. His shoulders began to shake.
“Will you do it?” she prodded.
“You’re mad,” Braeden gasped between laughs. “Absolutely stark raving mad.”
“So you won’t do it then?”
“Not for all the gold in the king’s treasury,” he replied, still laughing.
“Fine,” she snapped. “If you won’t do it, I’ll find someone who will.”
CHAPTER 14
Sam had far more experience skulking about the city streets at night than any young lady had a right to. She owed her skills to the duke: no sooner had her mother’s grave cooled than her father had taken her aside and informed her that her days of swordplay were over. Tempers flared, and they’d both said terrible things to the other that they could never take back. The duke, naturally, was the victor, and Sam wound up without a sword. In place of her sword lessons, she’d been given a governess to teach her all the things a well-bred lady ought to know.
It was no wonder she’d run away.
The governess was a dragon of a woman, fond of pointless drills and endless lectures, but she also kept society hours. She seldom woke before noon, and, enamored of the vibrant nightlife at court, stayed out well into the evening, leaving her charge to her own devices. Sam had taken advantage of these lapses of supervision, practicing training drills in the early mornings before any of the court was awake and escaping into the heart of the city at night to learn what else she could of combat.
So Sam was something of an expert at sneaking out undiscovered, and she knew the city streets of Haywood like the backs of her hands. She knew all the seediest pubs and gambling houses, the best fencing clubs, and the toughest underground pugilism rings.
By the time she stepped through the front door of the Wanderer’s Tavern, it was well past the hour for anyone respectable to be out of bed. The common room had emptied out, and the remaining patrons were a motley, unsavory bunch. Men leaned against the walls, wiping the ale from their beards and making lip claps at anything female that crossed their vision. At the tables, they played at cards or dice, drinking all the while. Others sagged in their chairs, heads down on the bar, snoring with abandon.
It didn’t take her long to pick her target. The man stood by himself in the corner of the room, wavering on his feet, holding onto the wall for balance. He had a mean, blotchy face and the glassy eyed look of inebriation. He wasn’t a big man—perhaps half a head taller than she, and two stone heavier—but that suited her purposes perfectly.
Sam sidled up to him and made a show of looking him up and down. “You, sir,” she said, loud enough for the entire room to hear, “are a drunk.”
The common room fell silent, waiting for the man’s reaction. Unsteadily, the man pushed himself from the wall. “What did you call me?” he asked, slurring his words.
“A drunk,” she repeated. “You’re so drunk I bet you couldn’t hit me if you tried. Not with my hands tied behind my back.”
“Ish ’at right?”
“That’s right,” she sneered, clasping her hands behind her. “Just you try it.”
The man wound back his arm and swung his fist at her face.
And missed.
Sam started laughing. “You missed. I can’t believe you missed.”
With a growl, the man swung at her again.
This time he didn’t miss.
When Sam looked at her reflection in the mirror the next morning, she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Her nose—while she was almost certain it wasn’t broken—was red and twice its normal size. Bruised purple-black and puffy, her left eye was so swollen that only the tiniest sliver of eyeball peeked through the lids. Her bottom lip was split, and her entire face was bumpy from multiple contusions. She didn’t recognize herself.
Well, that had been the goal, hadn’t it?
Tristan exploded the instant she walked down to breakfast. His butter knife dropped to the table with a clatter. “Gods’ teeth, boy, what did you do to your face?”
Sam cringed at his tone, scrunching up her eyes and forehead, and then immediately regretted it. Good Gods, her face hurt.
Tristan shoved back from the table, jumping to his feet. “What part of ‘the duke wants us to dine with him’ did you not understand? You were supposed to look respectable. How did you even get your eye to turn that shade of purple?”
“I’m sorry,” Sam said contritely, schooling her face into a meek expression. She hoped she at least sounded apologetic.
“Sorry isn’t good enough.” Tristan pinched the bridge of his nose and breathed deeply, twice. “The duke is a very important man to the Paladins, Sam. And he’s a very important man to me.”
“Why?” Sam blurted. Her fat
her had always seemed more self-important than important to her, though she had to admit, he had kept her somewhat sheltered.
“My reasons don’t affect you. Needless to say, I wanted—I want to impress him. And I told you, did I not, that you are a reflection on me. Sam, have you seen your reflection? I swear, it’s like you mistook your face for your shield.” He jabbed his finger at Braeden, who was already several bites into his oats. “What do you know about this?”
Braeden registered her injuries with a stony face. Great, now he was angry with her, too. “I assure you I had no involvement.”
Tristan let out a heavy sigh. “You certainly can’t meet the duke looking as you do.”
A seed of hope took root in her chest. “Really?” she said with feigned disappointment. “What a shame.”
Braeden’s spoon paused halfway to his mouth. A small snort escaped his nose.
“What?” she snapped, still annoyed he hadn’t agreed to help her. Braeden shrugged, pointedly avoiding her gaze.
Tristan sighed again, plopping back down in his seat. “Well, what’s done is done. I shall find a way to fix this.”
“How?” she asked suspiciously.
“I don’t know yet,” he said, “but I’ll figure something out. I always do.” He buttered another piece of bread, pausing to glance over at her. “Stop making that face. It hurts to look at.”
“I’m not making any face,” she protested, then noticed he was grinning. “You lout.”
Four hours later, Sam stared dubiously at the dozens of small pots and jars. This was Tristan’s solution?
“Now, don’t you furrow your brow, Master Haywood. You’ll create wrinkles in your pretty skin.”
Sam scoffed. “Are you blind? Now is hardly the time to be worrying about wrinkles in my ‘pretty skin’.”
“Nonsense,” Leona said, her impressive bosom all but falling out of her dress as she bent over to pat cream across Sam’s abused cheeks. “I can tell you’re right handsome under them bruises. Almost as pretty as a girl.”
